Freedom Fighters: Death Run
by Wesker888
Summary: Follow another resistance movement as they go up against the Soviet invaders in New York. Rated M for language, blood and gore, and romantic situations the romance is R
1. In the Midst of the Storm

Hello, all. 6th fanfic, whoo-hoo.

Don't own Freedom Fighters, though I wouldn't mind it. Um, if memory serves me correctly, EA Games owns it.

Why I'm doing this, I don't know. Truth is, I like FF, I'm going to do a BIA and FF crossfic on my website, but I felt like doing this as well.

My characters, my plot (well, not really, but you know what I mean) and… well, just read it.

Enjoy.

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Chapter One: In the Midst of the Storm

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

Tom desperately tried to shut out Sergeant Kigner's screams as he did his best to try to patch up the gaping hole in his team leaders' stomach.

Their sector was a wreck- New York had always been one, mind, but this was unbelievable. Mortars- Tom had known there would be- but this was too unexpected. Why the hell didn't they say anything about fucking _tanks_? All they said was a squad of Reds- instead they ran into a squad _and_ an entire company of armor. They had lost Reeve back there; the poor bastard never stood a chance against those iron monsters.

And now, their team leader, who was tougher than anyone they had ever met, was taken out by a sniper and was screaming his lungs empty. With no medic and no decent supplies, Tom did the best he could to patch up his wounded comrade.

"Where's Parker?" he asked Hubbs, their other teammate and the squad's machine gunner. He was covering the northwest corner with the captured Soviet machine gun he had gotten back at base, and sweating like mad.

"Haven't a fuckin' clue. When those dirty sons of bitches broke through, we got split up. Jesus, d'you see what they did to Reeve?" he stammered nervously.

Tom had, unfortunately, seen what had happened when the tank shell had hit his friend. There hadn't been a piece left of him in the aftermath.

"What the fuck are we gonna do now, man?" Hubbs was wigging out now, "Jesus Christ we're fucking _screwed_."

"Hold on, man, let me just- HOLD STILL!" Tom screamed to Kigner as he tried to apply the sulfa, but the man squirmed. He cried.

"Ah-how, Jesus, man, this fucking hurts. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!" he screamed as the sulfa hit.

"STOP SQUIRMING, KIG, GODDAM IT!" his corporal screamed. The sergeant tried to hold still, but he screamed and tears streamed down his face as he treated the gut wound.

"Man, what the fuck are we gonna do? How we gonna get out of this one, man?" Hubbs was getting more scared by the minute now, "Contact!" he fired a short burst at a Soviet soldier coming around the corner. The enemy dropped.

"Will you calm down? I'm thinking!" Tom shouted.

"WE'RE FUCKED MAN! WE AIN'T NEVER GETTING OUTTA HERE!"

"LISTEN TO ME!" Tom grabbed his squad mate by the scruff of the neck and brought him closer, "I PLAN ON LIVIVNG PAST TODAY! AND WHY'S THAT? BECAUSE I'M ONLY NINETEEN, I'VE YET TO FIND A TRUE LOVE, AND I'VE GOT A PACK OF BUFFALO CHICKEN WAITING FOR ME BACK ON THE ISLAND! NOW FORGET YOUR WILL FOR A MINUTE AND _GET A GRIP_!"

Hubbs whimpered, then shook it off and grabbed his machine gun to fire at another approaching Soviet soldier. Tom went back to tying a Compress around Kigner's wound. The sergeant winced again.

"Jesus Christ, this fucking hurts," he moaned again.

"You sure you got that sniper? I don't want him pegging me in the leg when I run across that street," Tom called back over.

Hubbs was shooting his pistol at the rush now while reloading his machine gun, but he managed to shout, "Well, if I missed, we would've known by now, right? I mean, we're not exactly behind decent cover, y'know?"

It was true; the wall they were behind was pretty much crumbling, pocketed with bullet holes and shrapnel. Any snipers for yards away would've had a clean shot at them. That guy must be dead, or at least wounded. Tom glanced at their escape route. It was only across the street, only a few yards to safety. But the street itself was one wide bitch. And, out in the open with a wounded man, their only hope would be to run fast.

"Alright, here's the deal: We grab Sarge, hightail it across the street, and get down into the sewers. I'll hold the soldiers off long enough for you and Sarge to get to the raft, and then I'll fall in also. Clear?"

"What about Parker? We can't just leave him up here, it's not safe," argued Hubbs.

"With any luck, he's already back there, drunk as a skunk and smoking his lungs dead. He's a professional, he'll be alright."

Tom didn't know if he believed that or not, but he hoped it to be true. Right now, all he was concerned with was getting him and his two remaining squad mates the hell out of there before the entire goddam Soviet army rained down on them.

"Alright," he said, "One-"

They both placed an arm under Kigner's arms.

"Two."

They hoisted him up. He shouted in pain. They got ready to run.

"THREE!"

They half-ass sprinted across the 880 yards to the other side. The sergeant, although remarkably skinny, still managed to weigh them down considerably. Halfway across the street, they heard the dreaded sound: a low humming from the air, steadily growing louder.

"Shit-"

"CHOPPER!"

A Soviet attack chopper, armed with Miniguns and rockets on the wing spaces, was the main worst nightmare for the Resistance movement. They were hard to shoot down and, if one did not have an RPG rocket launcher, then all he really had was to say his prayers.

"GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!"

They now hauled a large matter of ass across the remainder of the street. All at once, Soviet rifleman started firing their AK-47's at them. Kigner fired his SMG one handed, a real trifle, because the gun was awfully inaccurate and it jerked wildly even when held with two hands. The chopper opened up with its Miniguns. The bullets tore through the streets, geysers of street and lead popping up behind them as they ran.

"GET DOWN THERE NOW!" Tom yelled to Hubbs. As the machine gunner helped the sergeant into the tunnels, the corporal unslung his beloved shotgun and pumped some lead into oncoming Russians.

He shot one just ten feet away with a loud spread-blast that hit the man in the chest and right shoulder. The guy dropped instantly. Tom emptied the shotgun and then fired his six-shot revolver, carefully aiming his shots and dropping one each time.

As he reloaded, he saw the chopper began its turn to face him. Then he saw the other threat- a tank, heavily armored, its 88 mm cannon swinging to aim right at him. Tom reached into his pocket and looked at the grenade his hand came back with- it was his last one.

"Fuck this," he said, pulling the pin, flipping the switch, and throwing it as far as he could. It landed on the hull of the tank and exploded, barely leaving a dent. The Miniguns roared and the tank fired, but Tom ducked down and slammed the lid shut before he was hit.

* * *

Chapter one up. I'll try to get chapter two up soon. Later. 


	2. The Island

Chapter Two up.

Author's Note: I'm changing this story to an "M" rating, cause the romance is probably gonna be "R" (just one scene, I swear) and the blood and language is gonna be intense. Therefore, I'm giving you all a week's notice, then I'm switching. Questions? No? Good.

Enjoy

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Chapter Two: The Island

Emily looked up from her journal to see the raft approaching the Island. It was either Sticks bringing in newcomers, or one of the squads coming back from patrol. She went back to the little book.

"_It's been three months since the Soviets decided to come back and wage another war. We were ready, but at the same time, we weren't. We knew they were gonna come back. But we didn't know it would be so hard- our leadership isn't exactly the best, our intelligence isn't top notch like last time, and casualties come by the dozens._

"_I've been here three days already. The only friends I've made (the ones that haven't been killed or wounded in that time) are these two guys from 2nd Squad- a corporal and a machine gunner. I haven't gotten to know the others yet. The latter is OK, but he's really fresh- like me. But the other one… I like him. I really believe that he's the best chance we have at winning this war. Maybe-"_

"AAAAAH!"

Sergeant Kigner's scream snapped her out of her reveille. She snapped the book shut as two medics brought the scrawny twenty-seven year old sergeant up the beams, a large compress bandage over his stomach.

"Oh my God, what happened?" she ran over to them.

"Ah, those dirty fuckers!" he cursed, "Oh, those dirty fucking bastards, God, I'll see all of them hang, Christ fucker-"

"Miss, move please," the medic closer to Emily pushed her gently aside as they took him to the little hospital area on the other side of the Island. She just stood there, trying to piece together what had just happened.

She believed her question answered when she heard feet stamping and Tom and Hubbs came up the beam. The nineteen year old corporal with the long black hair stormed past her without so much as a glance or a smile, like he normally gave he. She looked after him as he stormed straight into central HQ.

"Hey, Em."

Hubbs, the beefy curly haired eighteen year old machine gunner, grinned feebly at the newest recruit.

"Hubbs, what happened?" she asked immediately. Hubbs placed his hand behind his head, awkwardly, not sure how to proceed. So he just said it:

"We…got ambushed."

88888

"TARKIN!" Tom screamed as he burst into the central command. The fifty year old captain looked up from his maps at the enraged corporal. Normally, the kid showed a little annoyance to the captain, but this was new. Tom looked like he was about to rip him in half and impale him on a stick to serve as a warning to the Reds.

Tom stalked over, slammed his shotgun onto the table, and looked the captain straight in the eyes.

"Why weren't we notified?" he asked.

"About what-?"

"YOU KNOW DAMN FUCKING WELL, 'WHAT'! WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU TELL US ABOUT THE FUCKING _TANKS?_"

At this, all of the staff members picked their heads up- even the coffee boys, who almost always never cared about the patrols. Tarkin sighed, almost bored.

"Alright, what the hell do you mean?" he asked.

"I _mean_, there's a whole goddam battalion of Soviet armor up there, and they were raining hell down on us!" Tom screamed, "AND more air support. I thought you said there was only a fucking squad up there!"

"Our Intelligence is showing no enemy armor above ground. I think maybe you're exaggerating a bit-"

"EXAGGERATING? DOES THIS LOOK LIKE I'M FUCKING EXAGGERATING TO YOU!"

"Corporal, please!" Captain Tarkin insisted, looking around at the startled staff. Lowering his voice, he added, "I'd appreciate it if you'd speak to me like a noncom is supposed to speak to his superior."

Tom took several deep breaths, all which didn't help a goddam bit. This man was impossible to deal with. It's almost like he _wanted_ them to lose.

"Sorry, sir," he spat, "but this we're in a whole new ballgame here. And for you to just dismiss this as an exaggeration-"

"Corporal, we're making all the necessary preparations for this assault. What more do you need?" the captain demanded.

"Molotovs and hand grenades aren't gonna be much help against choppers and tanks. You need to start providing us with RPGs, mines, heavy weapons so we'd actually stand a fucking chance," Tom argued, slamming his fist onto the table.

"We're working on it. In the meantime, I suggest you get back to your squad, rest up," Tarkin sat in his chair and sipped his coffee.

Tom was nonplussed. This was the goddam answer? The captain would just sit on his ass and drink his coffee while his buddies got blown to hell? Unbe-lievable.

"Oh, OK, fine. But while we're arguing, Reeve is dead, Parker's still out there somewhere, and Sarge's got a hole in his gut the size of my fist. And you're just gonna sit on your ass and drink coffee. Great job, Captain."

Without waiting either to be dismissed or for a response, he grabbed his shotgun and stormed out of the command area.

He looked around at the others. They were tired, they were hungry, and their clothes were dirty and worn. This wasn't the ideal army to be going up against the most powerful war machine the world has ever known. How the hell did he get himself into this kind of mess?

He finally found Hubbs sitting near the edge, eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs he had scrounged up a few nights ago. Tom's beloved buffalo chicken sat next to him, waiting for its owner. Tom quickly tore into it, hungry as a bastard.

"How'd it go?" Hubbs asked.

"Ignorant prick. Acting like everything's alright, trying to boost morale… everyone with two working eyes in their fucking heads can see we're losing this war, no two ways about it," Tom grumbled, taking a large bite out of the first piece.

Hubbs sighed. Tom ran his fingers through his hair.

"How's Kig?" he asked finally.

"Docs say he'll make it. But he's out of action for a few months- stuck to base guard action."

"And… any sign of Parker?"

Hubbs resignedly shook his head. Tom hung his. This just confirmed what deep down, he already knew.

Great. Their squad was now three men short, and they were stuck to just the two of them.

And to top it all off, now Tom was in command.

Just his fucking luck.

CRASH!

Both soldiers whipped around to find that new girl, Emily, having knocked over a weapons crate. The short, brunette of just seventeen was fumbling now to place it back up. Tom sighed, placed his chicken aside, and went to go help her place it up.

"Sorry," she said, blushing furiously.

"Don't worry about it. Just try to be more careful, aiight?" he said, sternly but also as friendly as he could.

She just nodded furiously, apologized again, and quickly walked away. Tom returned to his chicken, then stopped to look at the grin planted on Hubbs' face.

"What?" he asked.

"Dude, I think the rookie's crushing on you," the machined gunner smirked.

"Not gonna happen," Tom went back to his chicken.

"What? Why not?"

"Three words," Tom, his mouth full of chicken, lifted three fingers, then put them back down, "God. Damn. _Virgin_," he said, lifting a finger again with each word.

"So? What's wrong with that?"

"_So_, she's an innocent little kid, and I'm a battle-hardened wise-ass. Ain't happening."

Hubbs sighed. "You say so, Boss."

Tom closed his eyes. The words he had hoped never to have to hear: _Boss. _That meant it was his show. And he so wasn't ready for it.

"Go get some sleep, will ya?" he ordered. Hubbs nodded, got up, grabbed his heavy gun, and sundered off to the nearest cot.

Tom joined him about half an hour later, but he couldn't sleep. His head had too many images going through- of Reeve, getting blown all to hell, the biggest bit found was his pinky toe. Of Parker, out there somewhere, probably shot in the gut, wheezing, dying, calling for someone to help him, but no one answering. Of Kigner, the hole in his gut, screaming and crying for all it was worth. And he thought of command, who was refusing to do anything about it.

_How in the hell are we getting out of this one?_

* * *

Yeah, that's all I got for now.

Review please.


	3. Replacements

Chappie no. 3.

So, here I introduce the main cast… well, the rest of it, anyway.

Enjoy.

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Chapter Three: Replacements

Tom didn't want to wake up. He just wanted to stay, curled up in his ball with his jacket acting as a temporary blanket, asleep. To forget about yesterday's troubles and stay in his perpetual dream world.

But apparently, Tarkin had other plans for him.

"Hey, wake up," the voice belonging to Sonar, one of the clerks, squeaked, "You're needed."

Tom ignored him like he was the plague and continued to keep his eyes shut.

"Hey, c'mon, Sarge, wake u-"

The minute the word "Sarge" came out of his mouth, Tom immediately whipped the covers off, whipped out his six-shot Revolver pistol, and aimed it right between the short, eighteen-year-old with the geeky glasses' eyes. His eyes looked strangely demonic.

"What the _fuck_ did you just call me?" he growled.

"Um… Sarge?"

_"click"_

Sonar fell backwards, hands in the air. "Hey, chill out, man," he said nervously, "I guess you didn't hear about your promotion."

Aw hell. That son of a bitch actually did it- made him official squad leader. Perfect. Tom sighed and stuffed his Revolver back in its holster.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed, "Why the fuck did it have to be _me_?"

"Well, you _are_ next senior in line-"

"That was rhetorical, chickenshit."

"Right. Sorry."

The newly promoted squad leader grudgingly got to his feet and began stretching.

"So, what else was this little morning wake-up for?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, Captain Tarkin wanted to see you. Has some things he wants to go over with you."

Tom sighed. "Alright. Dismissed."

Sonar took his –grateful- leave. Tom grabbed his jacket- the same one he had worn all throughout high school with his days on the track team- and put it on, then grabbed his beloved shotgun and marched off towards the CP.

Today was bustling with activity. Some lucky asshole had scrounged a huge ammo dump, and the supplies were being herded into the weapons cache. Someone else was bragging about the diner he and his squad had "liberated" from a couple of drunken Soviet soldiers and of the food they had gotten. They were now good off for about another month or two, which definitely boosted morale.

Tom finally made it to the CP, where Tarkin and Hubbs were looking over some maps. The captain looked up at the entering sergeant upon his arrival.

"Good morning Sergeant. You look well-"

"Yeah, yeah, cut the shit and let's get on with it," Tom interrupted. Hubbs couldn't help but crack a huge grin at his friend. Tarkin, however, wasn't that cheery about it.

"I see your attitude hasn't changed, despite the fact that you now bear more responsibility," he stated.

"Leopards don't change their spots, Captain," was the response, "and right here is one bitching leopard."

He mocked a leopard impersonation, just to piss the older man off. Hubbs burst out laughing.

Tarkin just sighed. "Juvenile." Then, getting serious, he said, "Reports are coming in that the Russians have begun shipping more men through from the Forgotten Island towards the Main Base at the foot of Manhattan."

"How many?" Tom, also getting serious, asked.

"Some hundreds, but more keep coming every day. Pretty soon, they'll have enough to start an entire invasion of New England."

"What about armor and air support?"

"Reports are saying that enemy armor is indeed becoming active, but we're having trouble identifying positions. It's like they're blending in with the buildings or something."

"Jesus Christ, how hard is it to locate a few fucking T-34's?" demanded the sergeant.

"Hey man, those ones we ran into yesterday weren't exactly expected, right?" Hubbs broke in with.

"Soviet helicopters patrol the skies almost hourly, they have the whole sector wrapped up tight," Tarkin pointed out, "With one exception." His finger hit a spot on the map, "the Hospital. That's where their fuel pad is, and they're not fearing too much of an attack on it, especially since yesterday's hit on your instillation."

"Alright, so whaddya want me to do?" Tom asked. The captain genuinely smiled.

"Well, it won't be easy, but I believe this is a perfect opportunity for you to test your capabilities as squad leader. It's also good training for your replacements."

"…What?"

"Replacements, Sergeant. The people that are usually used to fill the spots left behind by dead or wound-"

"I know what a fucking replacement is! What I don't know is why-" But he stopped himself right there, suddenly knowing why. Of course; how could he have forgotten that Parker and Reeve were gone? And Kig… right. Of course there would be replacements.

"Right… So who are they?" he asked.

"Well, I'm gonna let you decide that," Tarkin answered.

"…What?"

"You and Corporal…um…"

"Hubbs, sir."

"Corporal Hubbs here will go over these files," and to both soldiers' dismay, Tarkin placed a large pile of files and reports onto the desk, most twenty pages thick, "And pick four names. They'll serve as your new squad."

"Um…Sir? There's, like, fifty fucking names in that thing," said Hubbs dismally.

"Yes?"

"We ain't gonna have to go through all of them, are we?"

Tarkin just met them with that same grin that Tom was really starting to hate.

"Start reading."

88888

"Son of a bitch," Hubbs drawled as they sat down at the small table outside of the Mess Section, "This is gonna take all fucking day, it is."

"Well, no use in putting it off, then," Tom opened the first one and ran his fingers through his hair, "Let's get it done."

They flipped through the files, glancing at names, ages, conditions, and judging to see if they had what it took to be a Freedom Fighter.

"Here's a good guy," Hubbs said, "Jefferson. Age 19, mechanic, killed a Soviet with nothin' but a monkey wrench. He looks good."

"Alright, we got a winner. One of four," Tom sarcastically twirled his finger in a victory movement. Hubbs chuckled and added Jefferson's name to the list.

"Ugh, this guy's seventy years old, what use is he gonna be to us? _Decaying_ is the only thing he's good for," Tom stated.

"Jesus Christ, look at this lard-ass," Hubbs pointed out, "Look- ate a hundred and twenty-eight pounds of cheese on a dare in his third grade. I swear to God Almighty, he must've been the gassiest kid in high school."

"Fuck high school, he's probably _still_ the gassiest," the sergeant chucked the file, "Next."

They kept going through them, getting themselves through it no matter how awful this stuff got.

"OK, now these things are starting to get ridiculous," said Hubbs, "This guy's got _two_ prosthetic legs. _Two_. Is it even _possible_ to lose both your legs in a fucking _motorbike_ accident?"

He tossed it aside. Tom gagged at another.

"Oh my God," he said, "This poor fucker's on twelve kinds of asthmatic meds and lives with his mother still. How in the name of God is the poor bastard gonna have the strength to fight the war?"

"Oh! Hells yeah, I got another winner!" Hubbs whooped, "Paige. Southerner, age 22. His brother got killed last week by a Soviet tank, and he's had a history of violence towards Russian-American immigrants. Only problem is, he's a bit of an arrogant asshole."

"Don't care, as long as he's got fight in him and doesn't use an inhaler. Put him on."

Hubbs wrote him down. They kept at it for a little while longer before Tom found a winner himself.

"Finally," he proclaimed, "Sullivan. Age 38, worked as a security guard for an Ivy League before he settled down here. Looking to keep his family safe from the Reds."

"Good cause. Let's sign him up."

With three names now under their belt, now all they needed was one more. Unfortunately, they had run out of names to pick out of the hat.

"Now what?" Hubbs asked, "Do we ask Tarkin for some more files?"

"No, we did that, he might pick us a name for us," Tom ran his fingers through his hair, "and chances are, he'd give us Cheese-Kid."

His partner shuddered at the memory, even though it had only been mere hours ago.

"Hang tough, man," the sergeant assured him, "There's gotta be _someone_ who-"

"Excuse me."

Both heads turned to the entrance. Emily was standing there, looking kind of nervously at Tom.

"Um… congratulations on making sergeant," she said shyly.

"Oh, thanks," Tom nodded, not really caring much.

"Hey, I made corporal. Don't I get somethin'?" Hubbs mock-whined.

Emily smiled, "Congrats, Hubbs," she said.

"Thanks, kiddo."

"Anything else, Em?" Tom asked, tiredly.

Emily bit her bottom lip. He always acted like this at her- tired, not at all concerned when she was present. Almost like he never really gave a rat's ass about her. She convinced herself that this wasn't true, but she couldn't help feel neglected whenever she was around and trying to talk to him. And yet, despite that, the way she felt around him… let's just say her mother would have some very coarse words about what she was doing in her bedroom.

"Just that Tarkin wants the names in half an hour. Do you have them?" she asked.

"All but one," he answered, "You tell that dickhead I'll get him the names when I get him the names. Clear?"

"Yeah, sure," she left.

Tom leaned back in his chair, stuck his pen in his mouth, and stared up at the ceiling. Just one more name… who would it be? Could it be possible there was someone they had overlooked? Some little thing that-

And suddenly, something inside of him clicked.

"What about her?" he asked aloud.

Hubbs' head came up, surprised. "Em?"

"Yeah," Tom looked at his buddy with a smarmy grin on his face, "She's damn persistent. Hates Tarkin as much as we do. Put a rifle in her hands, we could probably turn her into a killing machine."

"Yeah, but…" The corporal stared in the direction she had left in, "She's so damn innocent, y'know?"

"That's why war's a bitch, man. Or have you forgotten?"

Of course he hadn't; Parker and Reeves' faces flashed through Hubbs' head. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess." He looked back at him, grinning, "'Sides, that would be good for you- she'd be combat trained."

"What's that supposed to…?" But then Tom got it.

"You fucking asshole."

88888

At last, the team was assembled. At last, all four names were picked. And Emily found herself in one of the backrooms, with three guys she had never met in her entire life. At last, Tom and Hubbs walked in.

"Aiighty, all four of you have been called here for one simple reason, and I'm only gonna say it once," Tom said to all of them, "You're my squad. You're here because I need you, because I've personally requested each and every one of you. That's it, good-bye, the end. Questions?"

No one spoke up. Emily glanced sideways at Jefferson, a pale, skinny kid from the Bronx. He was about six foot three, with short red hair and a friendly disposition. When the four had gotten together, he was the one who talked the most, always kind words towards the others. She felt a natural friendliness towards him and felt that the two of them could work together on whatever they were paired on.

"Alright, if that's that- specialties. Each one of you'll have one, each one of you had better get your ass familiar with them. Jefferson."

"Yes?" Jefferson piped up eagerly. Tom and Hubbs gave each other a look saying the same thing: This guy ain't gonna make it.

"You're maintenance specialist. You ever drive a tank?"

"Uh, I drove my uncle's eighteen-wheeler once. Didn't kill anybody."

"That'll do. We ever come across anything that has four wheels, two machine guns, and heavy armor, you're the man responsible for getting it up and running. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I'll do my best." Ugh. Suck up. Hubbs almost gagged and wondered why again he had picked him.

"Righty, that done; Paige."

"Yeah?"

"We'll put you as fire team expert. You're the one who's gonna help Corporal Hubbs here (Hubbs did a silent two-finger wave) lay down the heavy fire while the rest of us do our stuff."

"Great," Paige dryly and sarcastically said, "Why don't yeh just shoot me in the fuckin' foot while you're at it?"

Now Paige- he was someone Emily didn't want to get stuck with. A stocky, broad-shoulder kid from out west, he seemed to be quite the misanthrope. He stuck alone, not talking much to anyone except in criticism or insult. In short, not a friendly person.

"Hey, Paige? I don't wanna hear you bitch about it. You wanna bitch about it, do it at dinner. Around me, I don't wanna fucking hear it. Clear?" Tom snapped.

Paige just threw his hands in the air. Satisfied, Tom moved on.

"Sullivan."

"Yes, Sergeant?" This came from the tall bald black man sitting in the corner. He was pretty quiet, but when someone did want to talk, he always put up a friendly aura. And he was a family man; Emily must've seen at least five pictures of his wife and daughter in the last hour.

"I'm putting you as demolitions. You'll have the standard C-4 charges, and believe me when I say, we cause a lot of stuff to go BOOM. Can you handle that?" inquired Tom.

"Tell me when and where, Sarge, and I'll do it," Sullivan answered.

"Alright, that's what I like to hear," Tom smirked slickly. He looked down at his list.

Which lead him to-

"Em."

"Yes?" she responded, again nervously. _God, why am I so nervous?_ she asked herself.

"We're placing you as sniper."

She gaped at him. She couldn't have just heard that; He wouldn't do that to her… would he?

"S-Sniper?"

"Yeah, sniper. You know, the guys that stay up on the roof or in some concealed location and take out a few guards to ensure everyone else gets in and out alright without too much trouble?" He spelled it out for her.

"But… snipers are away from the others. They're on solo details and all that," she responded, really scared now.

"Well, way I see it, you've got two options," Tom counted off his fingers, "One: You can hang on the rooftops and do us and America a tremendous service by sniping Russians, or two: You stay here. Your choice."

To Hubbs, this seemed like an irrational thing for the sergeant to be doing. By all rights, she shouldn't even be doing this. To Emily, it was something all together. Here he was, yet again treating her like she was a nuisance. She screwed up her courage.

"Alright, I'll do it," she said finally.

"Excellent," that smug grin was back on Tom's face, "From tonight on, you four are gonna start acting like a tight unit. You'll eat together, sleep together- no pun intended- and learn to live from each other. It's the only way you guys are gonna live through this war. Fail to do that, you're fucked. Got it?"

They all did, thought they didn't say they did. Just a silent tension he felt that told him that everyone got the picture. Paige, as it seemed, just glared at him. Sullivan was nodding, to what, Tom didn't know, he was just bobbing his head up and down. Jefferson kept looking between Tom, Emily, and Hubbs, as if wondering if this was for real or not.

"Aright, everyone get out of here. Get some grub and hang tight 'til tomorrow," Tom ordered.

One by one, they got up and filed out of the room. When they left, Hubbs sighed.

"Your people skills really need work, dude," he said.

"Hubbs, I didn't want this. OK?" snapped Tom, "Do you have any idea how I'd rather Kig be up here instead?"

"It's not fair that you have to drag her into this, man."

"The whole fucking deal isn't fair, man! You think it's fair that we're here and Parker and Reeve aren't? We might as well ring up Russia and tell them to cancel the war due to unfairness! But we can't. We just have to get it done."

Tom glanced at the others' exit. "Hate to say it, but these four Boy Scouts might be America's only hope."

"Uh, dude?"

"Yeah, I know, one of them's a girl."

"OK."

88888

Later, Emily and the other three guys were getting their dinner. After grabbing the night's course- a winner today, real macaroni and cheese with real red sauce and buttered bread- they picked a seat near the center of the Island where the plants were growing and began talking.

"Christ Almighty, can you believe that prick?" Paige was going on about the sergeant, "Actin' like he's so superior to all of us. I wanted this kinda treatment, I'd go join the Commies."

Jefferson laughed a little at this, but Sullivan didn't.

"He's just making sure we know who runs the show. Wants us to know how things are done," he said.

"Great, then just give us the fuckin' handbook. No need to act all rough and tough," the other snapped.

"That's not fair, Paige," Emily broke in, "He lost two of his friends yesterday. He just made squad leader today, he didn't even want it. Wouldn't that make you a little angry?"

He didn't answer. He just sat back and grumbled. Jefferson spoke up next.

"So, you think he'll be alright?" he asked. "I mean, if he's just been promoted, will he be capable of leading us?"

"He knows how to lead. It's just gonna be the first time he has to lead," said Emily.

Paige grumbled something under his breath about dumb micks and shitty leadership. Jefferson and Sullivan soon got themselves engrossed in a card game. Emily took out her journal and began writing.

_"Jefferson. Paige. Sullivan. These are the names of the three people that I just met today. Three people that I will have to spend the rest of this war with. Three people who, along with me, were drafted to fight a war we each knew little to nothing about. Three people that I would probably come to know as well as my sister._

_"What hell would we endure? How may of us would come through unscathed?_

_"How many of us would come back alive?"_

* * *

Finally, I finished this son of a bitch. 11 pages, _Jesus_.

Yes, I swear. A lot. I'm sorry, but that's who I am.

And yes, Paige is pretty much the Paige from Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood. I ran out of ideas for characters and I love his character to death, so I drafted him He doesn't belong to me, he belongs to Ubisoft and Gearbox Software.

I like how I used "misanthrope" in there. In case you didn't know, a misanthrope is a person who hates/distrusts other people. My PSATs are coming up soon, I have to get ready for them.

Kinda bland, but I hope you all enjoyed the hunt for the squad.

Review please!


	4. The First Battle

Chapter Four.

FIGHT TIME! YAY!

And… go.

* * *

Chapter Four: The First Battle

Again, morning call woke him up. Again, the grunts and groans of his grudging acceptance of wake echoed through the Island. Tom threw his jacket over his shoulders and shoved his arms through the sleeves. He then grabbed his shotgun, checked and made sure his Revolver was tucked carefully in its holster, and went to get his squad.

Paige was sleeping with his back against the wall, mumbling something. Tom bent down and nudged the newer man awake.

"Whuzzah?" The new guy jerked awake.

"Rise and shine, Country Boy. C'mon, breakfast," his sergeant ordered.

Paige reluctantly got up, grumbling about the good dream he had had. Tom moved on to Sullivan and shook him awake. The black man wearily opened an eyelid.

"Sullivan, time to get up. Get Jefferson up, will ya?" asked Tom.

Sullivan said nothing, just nodded, got up and moved over to where the lanky kid was fast asleep. With that done, Tom moved on to the final squad member- Emily.

He found her lying on her side, facing away from him in a sleeping bag. He slowly approached her, bent down, and was about to put a hand on her shoulder to wake her up when-

"I was already awake."

Emily turned over to face Tom, a sleepy smile on. Tom smiled back.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," she replied, stretching, "What time is it?"

"Chow time. Get dressed."

Not long afterwards, the entire squad was sitting in the mess area, the two team leaders sitting separate from the new guys. Jefferson and Paige were arguing about the Red Sox.

"They only won because they had Ortiz and Shilling. If they hadn't had them, we could've made it to the Series," Jefferson argued.

"Please, yer forgettin' Damon. He had yer asses wrapped in baggage and smacked yeh over the stadium like geese going South for the winter," Paige yawned. He obviously thought this conversation beyond him.

"Bullshit! Besides, _we_ have Damon now!"

"Yeah, and what good's he done yeh?"

"…OK, y'know what? When this is all over, I'll _prove_ to you that the Yankees are better. You just wait."

"I'll make sure to do that, hombre."

At that moment, Captain Tarkin showed up to check on them.

"Well, it looks like you all are getting well acquainted," he said to them.

"Howdy, Sheriff," Paige did a little wave, "What brings yeh by?"

"Just checking to see how our latest crop of soldiers are doing," replied Tarkin, "Squad looks great, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir," Tom muttered, not looking up.

"Once you're finished, report to the Weapons Gallery for your equipment. Then report to HQ for briefing."

At the word "equipment", Paige's eyes lit up. Equipment meant guns. Rifles, machine-guns, handguns, grenades- you name it. He had hit the mother load.

They ate up – Paige quicker than the others-, then, on Tom's orders, reported to the Weapons Gallery.

Tom was already armed with his shotgun- eight shells, semi-auto fire, mainly useful at short range, but still any American man's best friend. In his holster rested his Revolver- six shots, could be fired from a long range, though not as accurate, and packed one hell of a wallop.

Hubbs armed himself with his beloved Soviet machine-gun, which he had gotten his first day off a Soviet whose head he had crushed with a brick. The gun had a belt of three hundred heavy-duty rounds, could be held at the shoulder, and the ammo box was detachable on the left side. Though he only used it mainly for cover fire, Hubbs had used it to kill Soviet soldiers time and again.

Jefferson and Sullivan were both given the AK-47 Assault Rifles, the common weapon for both armies. It was long, with a thirty-round detachable clip, and good accuracy. Paige, on the other hand, armed himself with the heavier Soviet SMG, a short, forty-round sub-machine gun that had horrible accuracy, but in a pair of determined hands, it could be put to useful work.

"Well, boys," grinned Paige as he pulled the bolt back on his gun, "Looks like we finally get to go play 'Exterminator'."

Emily didn't even acknowledge him. She just stared down at her own weapon; a Russian sniper rifle, with a long barrel and a scope. She picked it up and examined it, just for a good lay of the land.

Suddenly, a pair of hands reached under and gently took it out of her hands. She fiddled nervously as Tom began thoroughly inspecting it.

"You know how this works?" he asked.

"I-I did a little target practice with it one time. Out of boredom," she responded, then added, "Never thought I'd actually need it."

"Well, basics" Tom held the rifle out as if demonstrating, "Ten round clip, 7.62mm bullet, 30 caliber. Affective over 1300 meters. Good weapon."

He handed it back to her, "Take good care of it," he told her, "Something tells me we're gonna need it a lot around here."

"Jest remember to take the safety off when you shoot, alright, kid?" joked Paige, standing near enough to overhear.

Emily shot a glare at him, but Tom didn't acknowledge.

"Alright, boys- and girl- report over to HQ for briefing."

Tarkin was awaiting them eagerly to get the briefing underway. Once all of the men- and the woman- were situated around the table, he got down to tactics:

"There's a heliport at this hospital," he pointed to the Hospital on the map, "where the Soviets are preparing their attack choppers for assaults on our units in the city. Surveillance has shown that as of now, they have one in port for gas and re-fitting. It's lightly defended, stationary machine guns placed here and here," he pointed to two spots on the map, "But they also have at least one RPG gunner in the tower for back-up reasons.

"Your mission is to infiltrate the hospital and destroy the heliport. By doing this, we should weaken the strength hold over the region. Before entering, your sniper will have to take out the gunner in the tower as well as the two stationary MG's. After that, it's a simple matter of getting in, setting the C-4, blowing the helipad, mopping up any resistance, and raising the flag at the Hospital to signal the victory."

Tarkin glanced up at the sergeant. "Seems easy enough for you?"

"Too easy. There's gotta be a bigger catch than this," Tom pointed out.

"Aside from the outer defenses, that's all there is to it."

There was more to it, and Tom knew it. There was no way they would leave a heliport this vulnerable. Heliports were their life-supports. These were the tools they used and needed most, there was not going to be just a bunch of guards with rifles. But he said nothing. The chance was just too damn good to pass up.

"Alright, my squad, mount up!"

-----

Tom peered out from behind the corner. There it was. Their target.

He was back in the war. After a day away, it seemed unreal. He was usually back into it a matter of hours, maybe even minutes, after the one before it. One day seemed like thirty years to him. Yet nothing had changed; the war hadn't gone anywhere without him.

But however surreal it must've been for him, it must be even more so for his new boys. Jefferson was looking around at their surroundings, looking both excited and scared. Sullivan was still as stone, though he was sweating pretty profusely. Paige was the only one who showed no sign of fear. He knelt at the corner, his SMG locked and loaded, just waiting for the chance to jump out, rush in, and take a few Reds by surprise.

"C'mon, let's move it," he hissed.

"Wait," Tom glanced up towards the apartment complex adjacent their target, "We need to wait."

In said apartment, Hubbs was helping Emily get comfortable with her surroundings.

"OK, you got a good spot?" asked Hubbs.

"Yeah, it's good," Emily replied.

"OK, now remember, don't freeze up, that's the worst thing you can do. Also, make sure your lenses are clean so you can actually see who you're shooting, and-"

"Hubbs," interrupted Emily, "I think I've got it."

Hubbs grinned, "Alright. You sure you don't need someone? I can send Jefferson up, he can spot for you."

"No, no, it's OK. I'll be alright."

"OK… good luck, kiddo."

Hubbs grabbed his MG, gave her one last thumbs up, and left. Emily glanced out towards where her target lay and took a deep breath.

"She alright?" Tom asked Hubbs as his friend sat back down next to him.

"Yeah, she'll be good," answered Hubbs.

"Come on already! Let's get this son of a bitch over with!" Paige was getting antsy.

"Calm down," Tom grabbed his radio, "Em, come in, over."

Emily grabbed the little radio she had been given and flipped it on.

"Yes, I hear you," she said in, "I'm in position."

"_Alright, get ready to shoot."_

Emily lay belly-down on the floor by the window and positioned the rifle so it was facing towards the tower. Through the scope, she could see the Soviet RPG gunner, walking around with that big, bulky tube, looking extremely bored. Not knowing that his death was staring him right in the face.

Dread suddenly took over Emily's body, alongside nauseating fear, as the full effect of what she was about to do took over her. She was about to kill a man, this man, for the first time in her life. In cold blood, nonetheless. She aimed down the sights, her hands started to tremble. Her finger twitched on the trigger…tighter…

She couldn't do it. It was just too much. She got back on the radio.

"I can't do it. It's just too much," she said panicked, her voice shaky.

"Sonuvabitch, let's just go in already!" Paige was again about to charge forward, but Tom grabbed his pack and roughly threw him backwards.

"We're not going anywhere until she takes out those fucking gunners, you hear me?" he demanded.

"You heard her. She ain't gonna do it. We don't got all day."

"Just hold your fucking horses. Hubbs, watch him, will ya?"

As the machine-gunner watched over the grumbling newbie, Tom got on the radio.

"Em, listen-"

"_I can't, Sergeant. I just can't-"_

"Just shut up and listen, OK?"

Emily closed her mouth for a second. Tom looked over at the others, who were transfixed on the tower, turned his back to them and began talking.

"Alright, listen up, kid. My first mission, it was a stealth op. Me and Sergeant Kigner were ordered to infiltrate an enemy compound and get intelligence on their next move. Right outside the front entrance, we found a sleeping guard. And Kig ordered me to kill him."

He took a pause there. On the other end, Emily frowned at the story. What was the point?

"_I was so scared…I think I either pissed or shit myself, it was hard to tell. And I flat out told Kig I couldn't do it… I couldn't take this man's life. It wasn't me, I wasn't a goddam killer…I was only eighteen then. How could anyone ask an eighteen-year-old kid to kill someone?"_

He took another pause, and this time, Emily was transfixed by the story. Tom was someone she had always thought to be born for this kind of thing. Maybe not for leadership, but for fighting. But this story proved that, in a way, he was no different than her.

"_So Kig taught me this trick. He said, 'Kid, you can do it. Just pick a number between one and ten, count slowly, and all your fears go away.' So I picked eight. And I counted: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. And then, all of a sudden, I could do it. Fear left me, I went in with my knife, and I did what I had to do to complete the mission."_

On the other end, Tom knew the story was working. It always did. It was true, that's what made it real. And he had used that story when Hubbs had joined them, and Parker. And it was bound to work in this case as well.

"OK…" Emily took a deep breath. In her mind, the number seven was the first thing she thought of.

"One…" She closed her eyes, "Two." Her arms lifted the rifle, "Three." They placed it down on the windowsill, "Four…Five." She bent down so that she was level with the rifle's scope. "Six…._Seven_."

At "seven", her eyelids fluttered open. The rifle was aimed directly at the Russian, just as it had before, but something was different. At first, she thought something was wrong with the scope. Then, she suddenly realized what it was. It was her. Her fear was gone. On the other end, Tom knew it had worked, too.

"Alright," he said softly, "Now, sight in."

Emily drew in her breath and aimed the rifle right to where her enemy stood.

"_Breath out."_

She released her breath, slowly and evenly.

"_Aim."_

She pointed the barrel right where the Soviet's heart was. Down on the ground, Tom looked up at the tower as he said the final words:

"Squeeze the trigger."

The minute he spoke, there was a loud BANG! From Emily's perch, she could see as the bullet plowed through the man's chest and right out the back. Blood spurted out and began to trickle from the wound, and in an instant, made a river flow right down the front of his shirt. The soldier's facial expression was one of agony, as he stood completely still, and then fell back against the wall. The RPG dropped out of his hands to the ground below, as his hands clasped his wound. He began breathing heavily, and then he slid to the floor of the tower and out of sight.

"Gunner eliminated," she spoke into the radio.

"_OK, now can you see the machine- guns?"_

She began scanning the interior of the compound before the hospital. She could see the first gunner, on top of a container pointed downwards towards the exit. But she could not find the second gunner anywhere.

"I've got one. But I can't find the other. It must be further in."

"_Alright, well, then take out the one you see, and we'll just deal with the other one when we get to it."_

Emily put her rifle back over her next target, and this time, she didn't even concern herself with the fear. She just sighted in, breathed out, aimed, and squeezed. Her next bullet caught the soldier in the head, sending him flying off the platform and out of sight.

"That's it. He's down."

"Now?" Paige looked up eagerly.

"Alright, kid. Make it happen," Tom nodded.

Grinning like a kid at Christmas, Paige burst out and ran through the opening, SMG at the ready. Hubbs lead Jefferson and Sullivan after him as the sergeant got on the radio one last time.

"Alright, Em, that'll do. When we're through the gate, you fall back to the Island. We'll meet you there."

"_OK, be careful."_

"Aren't I always? Sarge out."

He clipped the radio to his belt, cocked his shotgun, and ran in after his team.

He caught up to Paige in the lead, and ordered them to take it slow. There was still at least one machine-gun out there, not to mention infantry units, and if they weren't careful, then they were gonna be joining Reeve and Parker, wherever they were. And he wasn't losing men on his first real day as squad leader.

Right at the edge of one of the containers, he ordered halt. They stopped and took a knee. Tom, nice and carefully, leaned and just stuck his head out enough to take a glimpse at what was awaiting him. And there it was. Right in front of their path, like a beacon of death, was the second machine-gun, fully armed and gunner in position.

As he saw it, it must've seen him too, because at that point, it opened up. Hails of bullets slammed into the steel container, not too close to him, but close enough to send Tom reeling backwards and ramming into Paige.

"Shit!" he cursed, getting back up and placing his back against the wall, "Hubbs, I need you and Jefferson to try and find a way to draw their fire away from us. Go!"

"I'm on it!" screamed, Hubbs, tapping Jefferson's shoulder and leading him around the other side of the crate.

As the two crept forward, Jefferson couldn't help but look around. He was nervous, and it showed, but the amount of fear in him right then was insurmountable. He was terrified, more terrified than ever in his life. Had he been alone, it probably would've been worse. But at lease he was with someone who was an expert in this field, and he could at least take some comfort in that.

Hubbs stopped him there. To the right of them, the enemy machine-gunner was firing on the sergeant's position. Hubbs pulled the bolt back on his MG and turned to the newer guy.

"Alright, kid, while I'm firing on him, you keep an eye out for any Red that decides it wants to pop out at us with a howdy-doody. Think you got that?"

Jefferson nodded. The kid wasn't nearly as talkative as he had been the day before. Hubbs nodded.

"Alright." With that, he aimed, and began firing spurts from his gun at the enemy gunner. He fired in three-to-five-round bursts, not necessarily to kill, as the gunner had good concealment, but just to suppress, so the others could make their move. It proved to be working, as the gunner spent more time now behind cover than he did shooting.

"Paige, Sullivan, move up!" Tom motioned them forwards. Paige darted out first, followed closely by Sullivan. As they ran forward, three Soviets popped out from their right flank.

"Reds!" Paige took a knee, aimed, and fired his SMG. The heavy bullets tore through their bodies, blood spurting out every which way. The Southerner emptied his gun and then rolled behind the crate where Sullivan was.

"Got three in one burst," he declared proudly, slapping in a new clip for his sub-machine gun. "Hows about you?"

Sullivan didn't answer. His AK-47 was fixed solely on the Soviet machine-gunner, who at that moment was concentrating his fire on Hubbs' position, blind to his left. The gunner was in the middle of placing in a new ammunition belt and was just going to close the box when-

BAM! Sullivan fired a round that tore through the gunner's ribs. The Soviet lurched forward, toppled right over his machine-gun, and then lay completely still.

"One," answered Sullivan.

With the machine gunner down, Hubbs got up from his position and moved up to join the rest of the squad. Jefferson followed right behind him when a Red suddenly burst out from his left, a pistol in his hand.

The red-headed kid didn't even take time to think it through. He didn't even know who he was shooting at until he had unleashed half the clip. The bullets tore through the Soviet's midsection, chest, and face, leaving bullet holes all over. When the body hit the ground, the blood from the wounds quickly began flowing out, making a pool underneath him that soon gave off a strong odor.

Jefferson stared down at the body for a few seconds, completely stunned that he had just done that. This wasn't the first Russian he had killed, of course. But just the way he didn't even wait to see who it was…

"Kid, let's go," Hubbs ordered, "Trust me, we're gonna encounter plenty more that are gonna be alive enough to shoot back."

Tom re-joined his squad and looked around at the new guys. He was impressed that they had managed to keep up with them so far without getting wounded. That stuff was a rarity.

"I see you boys are getting the hang of this," he stated.

"Got me three in one blow, Sarge," answered Paige proudly.

"Not bad, kid. You might not get killed this week." His next words addressed Sullivan. "You OK with handling these two?"

"I can do it, Sergeant," Sullivan nodded.

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do. The heliport is at the top of the hospital. Me and Hubbs are gonna head on up there and make sure it's taken out. In the meantime, I want you, Paige, and Jefferson to raise this flag," he handed Sullivan the American flag, "when you've seen we've demolished it. Give those bastards something to fret about when they see we've taken one of their HQ's. You guys got all that?"

"Yes, Sergeant," they answered in unison.

"When you raise that flag, then we can all fall back to the Island," Tom checked his watch. Exactly twenty-seven minutes had passed since they had left the sewers. It was time to finish up.

"Alright, let's go."

He tapped Hubbs' shoulder, and the two old time FF's rushed into the building. The three newer members made their way over to where the flag post was and took up defensive positions around it.

"You think they'll be alright?" asked Jefferson.

"They'll be fine," Paige replied, "What's the worst that could happen?"

Inside the hospital, however, Tom and Hubbs had indeed run into problems, mainly involving the Russian Special Ops. unit, a group of men (and women) dressed in dark uniforms wielding SMGs and doing fancy roll moves.

"Reloading!" Tom hollered, shoving more shotgun shells into his weapon.

Hubbs fired his pistol down the hall, to no major extent. The Special Forces were gaining ground, with the Freedom Fighters having advanced very little. Tom took out his six-gun and carefully aimed his shots, but it was like shooting at ghosts. One minute, they were there, the next, they were gone.

"Oh, _fuck_ this!" he proclaimed, reaching to his belt, "I'm throwing a grenade!"

He pulled out the ball-shaped explosive, pulled the pin, waited a couple seconds, then flipped and flung it into the hallway. He and Hubbs pulled their legs under their chins and faced towards the walls.

BOOM! The explosion sent debris flying through the hallway, accompanied by Russian screams of pain. Tom leapt out, and shot any survivors with his Revolver. Hubbs covered with his machine-gun.

At long last, they had reached the heliport. Tom was amazed. This really was a hit-and-run fight. He had expected far worse. But he guessed someone up there had finally decided to throw them a bone.

"Alright, I'll set the charges, and then let's get the hell out of here," he ordered.

"I'll cover," Hubbs squatted and aimed his heavy gun at the entrance, ready for anyone that came through.

Tom knelt down and placed the C-4 charges by the large fuel tanks. The explosives, as small and light as they were, packed one hell of a wallop, which made them the ideal tool when demolishing targets. His squad always carried at least eight to ten charges on every mission they went on, regardless of what the mission was. He put it on a ten second charge.

A burst of fire said that Hubbs had just annihilated a Soviet intruder. The machine-gunner went to the edge to check the body that had fallen.

His eyes suddenly went wide.

"Tom," he said worriedly.

Tom turned. "Yeah, what?"

His friend turned to him and pointed down. Tom grabbed his shotgun and moved over to see what had his friend ready to shit himself.

What he saw almost made _him_ shit himself.

Hundreds of Russian soldiers, piling out of trucks, armed with AK-47's, SMGs, shotguns, and other assault weapons. In mix with them were heavily armored cars, now with added machine-gun turrets on top. The sight of all those Russians, headed right for them, only brought two, very distinct words out his mouth:

"Oh, _fuck_."

He knew this had been too easy.

He ran to the C-4 and hit the timer. The charge began beeping as it counted down to detonation.

"GO! GO!" he screamed to his partner.

The two bolted through the door and rushed down the stairs as fast as their feet could take them. From above, a giant explosion signaled the destruction of the heliport. At least one thing was going their way.

Jefferson watched as the roof went up in it's fiery inferno. He nodded to Sullivan, who immediately began raising the flag. As it hit the top, the doors flew open and the two squad leaders burst out in a complete frantic frenzy.

"GET YOUR ASSES TO THE SEWERS, NOW!" Tom hollered to his men.

The newbies gave him questioning looks, but didn't stop to ask. As the five bolted out the front gate, a Soviet gunner saw them and decided to launch an RPG rocket from its tube into the adjacent building. It sent large chunks of brick and rubble crashing to the street.

"Holy shit!" Paige exclaimed.

Russian soldiers then began firing their weapons at the five Americans. Jefferson and Sullivan each took a knee and began taking concentrated shots, trying to hit as many as they could, while Hubbs lay down suppressing fire with his machine-gun. As his shotgun couldn't deal with far-range targets, Tom was reduced to his Revolver. He dropped one a few feet away, but as he reloading, he saw the futility of their situation. They had rides, and pretty soon, someone was probably gonna bring in another tank.

They had to get the hell out of there.

He grabbed the RPG that had been dropped by the gunner Emily had dropped and aimed it down towards where more Russians were gathering.

"When I launch this, you all run across to the sewer entrance, don't look back, don't stop 'til you hit the raft, clear?" he asked. They all nodded.

"GO!"

With that, he fired the rocket from the tube. It whizzed down the street, past the Russian infantry, and slammed straight into one of the armored cars. Shrapnel burst out and the metal took down any soldiers standing near it. Those that weren't killed instantly were screaming in pain as medical officers began doing everything they could to patch their wounded up.

The remaining Reds picked their heads up to fire their weapons, but only found an empty street. The lead noncom cursed.

"Send word to the colonel," he told his subordinates, "The rats have taken the cheese and fled with it."

-----

That night on the Island, the Freedom Fighters were dishing out the drinks and food to celebrate their latest victory. Near the Weapons Gallery, Paige was re-telling the tales to two other soldiers from the 1st squad, Spinner and Chugger.

"You shoulda seen it; there was a whole platoon of Reds that come rushin' out from right flank. Took all of 'em out, single-handed," Paige gulped down his beer with a big grin.

"Bullshit," Spinner, a twenty-three-year-old with hair gelled up in the front, spat, "you can't wipe out a whole platoon with just your SMG. That's like, a bullet per man."

"Yeah, well, I did it," the Southerner retorted.

"Anything's possible when you put a gun into the hands of a Southerner, dude," said Chugger, a nineteen-year-old kid with light brown hair and a surfer's attitude, as he lit a cigarette, "You ever play that game 'GUN'? Case in point right there."

Pause.

"Shut the fuck up, Surfer Boy," Spinner ordered. Chugger blew smoke out at him.

"Hey guys," Tripper, another 1st Squad member with wild dark brown hair and a joking personality, sat down with the other three, "Nice job on the hospital, Paige. Not bad for a newb."

"Was nothin', just tellin' these guys about the Russian platoon I took out single-handed, y'all wanna hear?"

"Uh, sure, why not?" Tripper looked at his two squad mates uncertainly. Spinner groaned, but Chugger just laughed.

In the mess area, Jefferson and Sullivan were hearing war advice from Joel, 1st squad's squad leader. A forty-year-old veteran of the first U.S.-Soviet war, Joel was British, with a bald head and a scar just alongside his right eye. He had seen major combat a lot over the last few years, and had fought with Chris Stone during the Battle of Governor's Island. He was one of the only men from the original Manhattan Resistance left.

"You boys are in for a rough fight, I shit you not," he told them gravely, sipping a can of beer, "This skirmish was nothing compared to what we normally go up against. I remember back in the First War, you'd be lucky to only come across _one_ tank every now and again. Nowadays, you'd be lucky _not_ to come across a tank. They've definitely upped their armored units this time around, which means you pissheads need to keep your wits about you always. Don't let your guard down for a second."

The two guys nodded. They were impressed with this man, his history, his stories. It was like a grandfather sitting down with his grandchildren.

"Ah, I think you blokes will be fine. Just listen to your squad leader, and trust the other noncoms. They know what they're doing. We're not squad leaders for nothing after all, right?"

Speaking of squad leaders, Tom was spit-shining his shotgun when Hubbs came up to him and sat down next to him.

"Just saw Kig," he said, "He's doing good. Doc's say he's on his way to a full recovery."

"Did you give him my regards?" Tom asked. Hubbs nodded.

"I did. He said he was glad that you were taking over 2nd Squad. He was real pleased that you got the job done."

"Remind me to give thanks when I see him."

"Said that Tarkin was pleased."

Tom snorted. "Yeah, because that's why I joined the Freedom Fighters," he spat, "To please arrogant shitheads like him."

His friend chuckled. The sergeant pumped his shotgun and looked around for something else to do.

His eyes fell upon a lonely figure with brown hair, sitting by the edge of the platform, probably eating, due to the fact that she was hunched over.

"Hey, I'll be right back, alright?" he got up and went over to her.

"Yeah, sure thing, Boss," Hubbs smirked behind him.

From her perch, Emily was just finishing writing in her journal when her squad leader unexpectedly sat down next to her. She jumped, closed the book, and placed it out of reach from him.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hey," he nodded towards the journal, "Whatcha got there?"

"Nothing," she replied, a little too quickly.

He nodded. "Ok…"

They sat in silence for a little while, just staring out into the infinite abyss stretching towards the manhole opening.

"We did good today, didn't we?" asked Emily.

""Well, we left about twenty or thirty Soviets dead altogether," answered Tom, "'Bout another fifty wounded, due to us blowing up that friggin car, which is also one less of those than they would have. Add the fact that we took out a key objective, and captured a strategic location…yeah, I'd say we all did well."

"Even me?"

She was mainly talking about her first kill. She looked down into the water, and Tom wasn't sure if she was ashamed for earlier or just nervous.

"Look, it's your first day," he told her sternly, "_Everyone_ screws up the first day."

"Not Paige," she threw back, bitterly, "Not even Jefferson. They just…did it."

"Well, some adapt more naturally. Kid, what happened to you today has happened to more people than anyone can imagine. Everyone gets the jitters over their first time killing someone. It's not a fun thing to do. But the worst part about it is this: you actually get used to it."

"How?" she finally looked up at him with an appalled look on her face, "How could anyone get used to that kind of thing? It's inhumane."

"I dunno…all I do know is that it is amazing how few bodies you have to see before it stops affecting you."

He took a quick pause, before getting up.

"I'd better go check on the others. You gonna be OK?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded, "I'll head to bed in a little bit."

"Alright. Get some good sleep. Tomorrow, the real work begins."

He waved good-night, grabbed his shotgun, and left her alone. She waited until she was certain she was alone again, then grabbed her journal and wrote down one final paragraph:

"_I killed my first man today, and I can't help but feel guilty about it. Tom keeps telling me I did the right thing…but what is the right thing in a war? Is there one? And how will we know what it is, if we ever happen to come across it?_

"_I think life was troublesome enough before war decided to take over."_

* * *

Jesus… and I thought that _last_ one was long. This one reached 16 pages.

I think the battle was good enough. I hope it was, anyway.

Sorry for the long wait, by the way. Lotta stuff's been happening between now and last October, when I last updated. You can understand.

And yes, I _do _have a plan for bringing in the 1st Squad guys. But you'll just have to wait and see what it is.

Review please.


	5. Patrol

Chapter Five up.

Quick word- if you recall in the first chapter how I mentioned I had a Freedom Fighters/ Brothers in Arms story on my website? Well, as of July, I shut my website down due to lack of use and am now in the process of saving the stories I have on there to switch them over to _this_ website. Now, the dilemma is- it's a FF story, I mean, it goes against the Russians and all that, but it heavily follows the BIA storyline. However, there is no BIA section on this website. So does that put it here, or X-overs, or what? Get back to me on that.

Now, the next few chapters are just the squad going out on missions and the two squad veterans just showing them the ropes. On-the-job-training, that kind of thing.

Onward we go.

* * *

Chapter Five: Patrol

That morning, instead of wake-up call, the Island inhabitants were woken up by Tripper's shouting echoing off the walls.

"Everyone! Come see! It's all over the news!"

The other Freedom Fighters began shaking themselves awake in a hurry. All of them were suddenly alert and active. The reason being the word "news". The news was their only way of getting the heads-up on city going-ons, and also the place where they could see the repercussions of their battles, good or bad.

Tom, being the lazy bastard he was, was the only one who was slow about getting up. In fact, he didn't even make the attempt. He just snuggled under his jacket- which was acting as his blanket- and pressed his head harder into the pillow.

"Too tired. Not getting up," was all he said.

"Come on, man," Hubbs threw his partner's shoe at him, "Don't you wanna see us on T.V.?"

He sighed. "Fine," he mumbled, getting up and grabbing his shotgun, "Let's go."

They arrived to find about forty of their men already huddled around the small T.V., either smoking cigarettes, eating a little breakfast, or just staring transfixed towards the screen while the Russian newswoman gave the latest current events lecture.

It was an old tactic. The Russians had used it last time they had come; get a woman with a pretty face and figure to sit in front of a camera and make it look like she was giving an accurate current events lecture, when in reality, all she did was boost morale for the Soviets and lower it for the Americans. Last time, thankfully, the Freedom Fighters had taken over the news station a little while before taking Governor's Island. No one ever knew what had happened to the former newswoman.

"_Yesterday afternoon, the local hospital was unexpectedly ambushed by a squad of rebels. They inflicted several casualties and destroyed a valuable fuel depot for Soviet air assault force. This attack is similar to the ones that occurred several years ago and also to recent attacks throughout the city. There is no word yet on what our leaders will do to counter-attack, but-"_

What the woman had to say next, however, wasn't heard, for right then, there was a chorus of cheers from the Freedom Fighters, and congratulatory pats on the back for the 2nd Squad.

"Looks like you dudes did even better than we thought," grinned Chugger, relaxing on a cigarette.

"This was just a scrub mission," Paige declared, "By the time I'm through with this war, every damn Red out there will fear my name."

"Don't get carried away, kid. The Reds would sooner slit your throat than fear you," Spinner warned, spitting into the water.

"Alright!" Joel shouted over the voices. "1st Squad, we're patrolling the North Side today. Weapons and ammo, on me. We'll meet at the half-tracks in ten minutes."

"2nd Squad!" It was Tom's turn now. "We're on the South Side. Fall in right behind 1st Squad. Let's go, let's go."

There was grumble amongst the men as they got up and collected their weapons. Patrols… probably the easiest, yet scariest job for a soldier. The easy factor was the fact that there were no specific jobs, no mission objectives, no blowing things up (for the most part)…just a simple walk to see the enemy activity. However, there was also no telling what they would run into. A patrol could go out and have no contact, with all of their men returning safely. The same patrol could also do nothing than get a group of their own men killed. It was a game of Russian Roulette, basically. But the gun was always loaded, it seemed.

"Alright, guys, let's go."

They grabbed what supplies they needed and headed out, bracing themselves for what was probably going to come.

-----

Through the binoculars, Tom scanned the barren wasteland of destruction. This part of New York had received the worst shelling than any others when the Soviets returned for the second war. All the taller buildings had been completely decimated, and the smaller ones hadn't faired much better. Burned-out tanks from the first major battle of the war still lingered, as did the bodies of those who had died there. The stench was awful- one could be devoured by it, it was so thick. He lowered them and turned to Hubbs.

"Alright, we'll pair off into twos. Have Jefferson and Sullivan take the Front Street route, let Em and Paige hang a left near the burnt tank and patrol the shops. You and I will inspect near the Harbor. We'll meet up at the Diner in about an hour."

"Right," Hubbs looked towards the others and used the hand signals to get them into their pairs and move out.

Emily looked disgustingly at Paige. The Southerner was cleaning up his SMG with a dirty rag and whistling the theme song of "Oklahoma!", paying no mind to her obvious discomfort. Of all the people in the world, she had to get stuck with him.

"Alright, move it out," The Sarge ordered, waving his arm forward.

She glanced over at Jefferson, giving him the look saying she wasn't happy with the pairing. He just shrugged and gave her a little half-smile. Then he grabbed his gear and followed Sullivan on his desired route. Desperate now, she turned back to Tom, hoping to get a better pair, but he and Hubbs were already on their way. Now it was only her and…

Paige got up, slapping in a new SMG clip, and patted her shoulder carelessly.

"Relax, kid," he said. "Yeh got me here. What could go wrong?"

_A lot of things…_

"Let's just get going," she said, grabbing her sniper rifle and pushing past him.

She heard his footsteps as they hurried to catch up to her, and then he was right next to her as they moved into one of the shops. This one was a former diner, by the looks of it, though the chairs were overturned and half the tables had been unscrewed and thrown sideways. The bar looked like it had been cut up with an axe. On the walls, there was a reddish-brown color that looked suspiciously like someone's blood.

"Y'know," he said, as she glanced around, "I got the feelin' yeh don't like me very much."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Can I ask why yeh don't really like me that much?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but then she closed it. Aside from the fact that he was loud and obnoxious, and that he could be mean as hell, as much as she hated to admit it, there was nothing about him that she could actually hate. He was a pain in the ass, but that was all.

"I guess I don't really have a reason," she admitted with a shrug.

"I ain't that bad," he went on to tell her. "Yeh don't gotta like me, but if we're gonna be fightin' together from now on, then we're gonna have to learn to get along. Yeh can't keep thinkin' I'm as bad as the Reds."

She sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm sorry."

"Alright, then," the Southerner looked around, "let's see what we can do about findin' some useful stuff 'round here. Like food or ammo. We're alright now, but one can never have enough."

He pushed one of the back doors open and scanned around, his SMG moving with his eyes. He knew what he was doing, and Emily had to wonder how he knew what he was doing. The way he moved, the way he acted under fire the way before…only one that had seen combat before could be like this.

"Are you sure you don't have any military training?" she asked.

"My pa did," he replied, opening a couple wooden crates and picking through its contents with his machine gun. "He fought in the first war, and when he got back, he taught me and my brother all we had to know to survive. He knew the Reds would come back; army that large there's no way they coulda wasted all of 'em back then. He figured if they were gonna start something, his boys'd better learn how to do the same stuff he did."

"Where is he now?"

He stopped for a moment, and she knew instantly she had asked the wrong thing. This recognition was confirmed when he said, "He's lyin' a few dozen feet below ground, with a Red sniper bullet in his heart and brain. When those bastards came stormin' in the second time, he decided to get a little resistance group goin' to try and take out a few 'fore the tankers came in. What he didn't count on was the first platoon they come across bein' an elite Special Ops. one, and they gave 'em a bit of hell. Two of his troops dragged his dead body back to our ranch when it was all over. Those two guys were all that were left. Outta fifty."

Emily felt her spirits damped as he spoke. She felt terrible; her parents were, as far as she knew, safe and sound. His father and brother were both dead; it was just him left to take care of the family. This probably wasn't the reason he acted the way he did- it seemed as though he was born that way- but it probably contributed to it.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," he shrugged. "Pa always said if his time came, we gotta make the best of it. That's what I'm doin' now. After my brother died, I realized I had to do what I had to do. That's why I'm here."

He placed the covers back on the containers and turned back to her.

"Sides," he added, throwing a casual grin in with it, "could be a lot worse-"

BOOM!

The loud explosion rocked them around and deafened their ears like only the sound of freshly-fired mortars could do. Emily and Paige both hit the floor as dust fell from the ceiling down onto them. Emily took several deep, panicked breaths and picked her head up. She could see movement coming from the hill off in the distance, but she couldn't tell if they were American or Russian.

"Shit!" Paige got back up and pushed himself against the wall, looking cautiously out the window. "They musta just set 'em up. Probably got the whole street zeroed in by now."

There soon came another explosion; closer this time. So close that it blew the glass out of one of the windows, shards shooting out towards the floor. Sooner or later that mortar was going to get it right, and they were going to get shrapnel whizzing down on their heads. They had to make a move.

"We've gotta make a beeline for the Harbor," he called out to her. "Find Sarge. He'll know what to do."

She gulped. Crossing a field with mortar fire wasn't a glamorous thought. Even worse was the thought of what else was waiting for them when they left the house. She had seen infantry out there, and she had the distinct feeling they were Russian. And they probably had weapons. This meant they would have Russian soldiers shooting at them the whole time they would be looking for the rest of the squad. And that was something she would rather not have.

"It's now or never," he said. "I'm goin'."

He kicked down the door and rushed out. The second he did, another mortar shell landed about twenty feet away. Dirt showered him completely, but he ignored it as he dived through the bushes.

It was her turn now. Clutching her rifle firmly in her hands, she kicked off from the door in a fast sprint. She heard the sound of the mortar being ejected from its tube, and ran faster, not knowing where it was going to hit and not caring, as long as it was anywhere away from her. The bush was dead ahead and she only had a few more feet. And then the mortar crashed, not close to her, but close enough to knock her off her feet and face down into the dirt.

She looked up, and instantly went back down when another mortar came down. The fire was starting to increase, and the explosions were becoming more frequent. And then she realized there were not one, but two mortars out there. This made the situation even worse, if that were possible. Every time she tried to get up, an explosion would send her back down. If this kept up, it would only be a matter of time before they caught her.

And Paige ran back out, despite the mortar fire, and grabbed her by the neck of her shirt and began dragging her back to the bushes. More mortar fire showered dirt all over her but it didn't even slow him down as he pushed her through the bush and then dove back in after her.

The fire continued, but it was slowly getting farther and farther away. Relieved, Emily looked at her savior. However doubtful she had been of him before, he had just redeemed himself in a major way.

"Thanks," she said.

He just waved it aside. As he looked over the top, she peered through the bushes, trying to spot any Russian infantry. The mortar fire was getting pretty far off, and she wasn't sure if that meant troops were moving in or not. Mortars were often used to soften up targets for the soldiers to move in. But they had already taken this part of Manhattan. What could they be invading for?

Looking for us probably, she thought with a pang of dread.

"There's Sarge."

Emily turned and looked over the hill in the direction Paige was nodding towards. About halfway up the hill, she saw Tom and Hubbs perched behind a rock, not making a move or sound. Tom was looking through his binoculars to a spot further up the hill.

"Let's get goin'," Paige once again kicked off in the dirt, this time Emily right behind him.

Tom glanced over at the latest arrivals quickly before returning to his binoculars. Hubbs was laying belly-down with the tripod on his machine-gun to balance himself out. Emily and Paige moved in between them and sat down.

"Mortar crew's there," Tom nodded straight ahead. Emily aimed her rifle over the top and looked through her scope. She saw the two big mortars, with their long tubes and their base plates, and the four men manning them, two to each mortar, one firing the rounds, the other checking the coordinates to make sure it was accurate.

"Jefferson and Sullivan are on the other side," the sergeant put his binoculars down and grabbed his shotgun. "The Reds are everywhere, and they've got a tank. We've been running from it since we split up, but I think we finally lost it. But we need to link up with the others and fall back before we run into it again, and to do that, we'll have to take out the mortar crews."

Emily gulped. Assaulting mortar crews wasn't too bad, if you got the element of surprise on your side. But the problem was that, if they didn't use that element to wipe them all out, they would grab their own weapons and fire back. And with no cover, they'd be sitting targets. The only things they could do would be to either retreat or keep going. Either way would bring chaos.

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do," Tom continued. "Em, Hubbs, you two are gonna lay down a suppressing fire to keep their heads down while Paige and I get close enough to take them out. Paige, we're going to throw grenades first and mop the rest up with small-arms fire when we get close enough. If you can, try and grab a prisoner so we can figure out what the hell they're-"

BOOM!

Suddenly the mortar pit exploded. The four Freedom Fighters flinched and looked up. Emily peered back through her scope. Had a round gone off by accident? No, the blast wasn't as big. Only a grenade could've made a bang like that.

The Russians were on the ground, mostly screaming in pain. One had his leg shorn off below the knee, and was trying to crawl to his AK-47. The only one not too badly wounded had a chunk of metal jutting out of his head but it was obviously not too deep in, because he still went over and tried to patch up one of his fellow soldiers, who had a piece of shrapnel piercing his stomach, screaming as his guts started spilling over.

And then an American popped up, placed one foot on a container, and began pumping SMG rounds into the defenseless soldiers. The one with the metal in his head got two more rounds in there to add to it, and he went backwards, blood pumping out in squirts. The other three got shot all over, legs, arms, chest, and head. The soldier emptied an entire clip before all of his victims were dead, then stopped firing, sat back behind the crate, and began reloading.

"Who the hell is that?" asked Hubbs, machine-gun aimed right at the guy.

"C'mon." Tom cocked his shotgun and advanced, the rest of his squad right behind him.

The American soldier finished reloading and looked up and saw the other Americans coming towards him. He grinned, a large, dirty-toothed grin and stood up to greet them. Emily saw that he was tall and stick-thin, with messy black hair that he kept under a wool cap. A large radio was on his back, and she recognized it to be one of the ones back at the base.

"Y'all certainly do get a lotta action up here," he said, looking around at the carnage. "Haven't even been here a whole hour and already this is my third sneak-attack. What's the record y'all got goin' on up here?"

He kicked one of the corpses and spit on it. His accent was a strong Southern one, stronger even than Paige's, which made Emily believe that he was more from the Deep South than out west. Louisiana, maybe. Or Southern Florida.

He kept talking. "That captain of yours, Tarkin, he sent me out here to find y'all." He indicated the radio on his back. "Figured y'all would want a line back to HQ."

"What's your name, trooper?" Tom asked, lowering his weapon.

"Huxley, suh," the man replied. "Just joined up today, ready and willin' for active duty."

"Where're you from, Private Huxley?"

"Baton Rogue, Louisiana, suh."

"What brings you to New York?"

"Heard the Manhattan Resistance was takin' a hammerin'. Figured y'all could use all the help you could get."

"Much obliged for that," Tom looked down into the city. "We gotta move. Find our boys and pull back, before that tank decides to do it for us."

He turned back to the other troops. "Alright, Huxley, you're with us. Keep low, pay attention. Let's move."

Huxley nodded and fell into line behind the rest of the group. Now there were five instead of four, and Emily felt better. Huxley seemed to know what he was doing, despite it being his first day. She didn't have any worries about him.

Automatic fire now became more frequent throughout the streets of the South Side. Where they were, it felt like they were taking a stroll through the sunny hillside and were about to walk into an approaching thunderstorm. Thinking it over, Emily probably preferred it like this over getting caught up in a sudden firefight. This way, at least she knew what to expect.

And before long, they were in it. Machine guns were opening up from the third floor of one of the destroyed apartment buildings. Several soldiers were in the streets, armed with AK-47s, nine of them, with one soldier in a red beret toting a shotgun. Ten soldiers in all. And there were five of them. Two to one odds; not odds that she relished. She still couldn't see the tank, but she knew it was there, waiting for them to make their move.

"There they are!"

It was Paige who had spotted them. She looked over and saw Jefferson and Sullivan cowering behind a large piece of building, returning fire when there were pauses in the firing. Jefferson had run out of ammo for his assault rifle and had switched to his handgun, pumping in a few rounds to the machine guns. Sullivan was popping off one or two rounds at the advancing soldiers. Three or four dead Soviet bodies lay sprawled out on the ground in between the two armies.

"Hubbs, Em, suppressing fire on those machine guns, make them draw back. Paige, Huxley, you're with me. We're gonna link up with the rest of the boys. Move out."

Hubbs lay his machine gun down and began laying down a thick blanket of bullets for the rest of the squad to move up. Emily peered through her scope, but couldn't see the gunner from where she was positioned. It was a waste of ammunition, but she figured it would be better if she shot as close as she could so that they would withdraw their fire.

"Thank Christ you guys showed up, Sarge," said Jefferson, loading in a new clip to his handgun. "We've been stuck here for the last ten minutes. They keep bringing in new guys every time we take out a few. I had no idea there'd be this many."

"What about the tank?" Tom asked.

"No sign of it, but I'm sure it's out there somewhere."

BAM! Sullivan had just fired a bullet through the helmet of one of the Soviet soldiers, which passed through the other side, leaving a large gaping hole through the helmet. As the man dropped, Tom thought to himself, _nine left_.

"Where are they mostly gathered?" he asked.

"Over there," Sullivan nodded forward. "Behind that dirt mound. But there's about three or four others in a mound behind them as well."

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do," he quickly devised up a plan. "Jefferson, Huxley, you two are gonna lay down suppressing fire while me, Sullivan and Paige try to flank along their right and get a bead on them. Fire team lays down some fire on the machine guns as well, so that Hubbs and Em can catch up to you. Assault team, on me."

That was how it had to be. No pauses, no time to set up, no countdowns. In and out. That's what they were all about.

Instantly, Huxley opened up with his SMG on the enemy soldiers, hitting one in the knee as he scurried by. Sullivan passed a few clips to Jefferson, who loaded one into his rifle and began popping off a couple rounds as the three assault members began their path to the right side of the enemy cover.

They were about fifty feet away when the machine gun turned their attention towards them, and the street in front of them became peppered with machine gun fire. All three of them ducked down behind a destroyed car and tucked their legs in as bullets chipped at the pavement. Tom stood and fired two shotgun blasts at the window, but to no avail, as the gun was too far away for the shotgun to hit.

"C'mon, Em. Hurry up already," he grumbled under his breath as more bullets skidded across the car.

Emily was trying to, at any rate. But every time she tried to move out to make a shot, the machine gun would pop off a round into her direction and she would be forced backwards. Hubbs would return fire, and then the whole process would just repeat itself.

"Keep it occupied so I can dart out and take the shot," she shouted to Hubbs.

"I've tried that!"

"Well, now we're gonna try a little harder!"

She shot him a quick glare and then prepared to move. Hubbs looked at her, and then shook his head with a grin.

"I think you're starting to get the hang of this, kid," he said.

He stepped out and fired the rest of his belt at the machine gun nest. The enemy machine gun continued firing, but to their joy, it also withdrew slightly, enough so that its fire wasn't as close to their position as it had been. This was their chance.

Quick as a flash, Emily darted out from her cover and hid behind an upside down pick-up truck. From where she was, she finally had a clear shot of the gunner. She aimed her rifle at the window and peeked through her scope.

The Russian machine-gunner looked out as Hubbs withdrew his firing. With no more bullets coming his way, he got back on his machine gun and began looking for more targets. Loading a new belt in, he swerved the gun over to where the three Americans were still trapped behind that car, and his finger began to tighten around the trigger-

BAM!

The top of his head seemingly exploded as the bullet went straight through and plowed out the back. Red and pink soon became the new wallpaper as he slumped to the floor, his hand still on his gun, a smirk slowly fading from his face. He had never known what had hit him.

Emily sat back and let out a sigh of relief. The problem had been taken care of.

Tom stuck his head out from behind the cover to get a better look. The machine-gun had ceased firing; the kid had finally done the job. Now all that was left was that squad up ahead. He looked to his two men.

"Alright, low and fast. Move out."

Paige slapped Sullivan's back and the two moved up to the next position. Tom was right behind him, keeping one eye on the enemy soldiers in hopes that they didn't notice them. But Jefferson and Huxley were still firing, and all of the Soviets' attention was turned on them; not the three soldiers working along their left flank.

He quickly divided up a plan. Paige would sneak around the left flank through the shed and attack from their rear. He himself would move down around their front and lob a grenade over the top while Sullivan would remain where he was and pick off any targets that he saw. The fire team would keep on the suppressing fire while they worked, leaving the Russian soldiers boxed in for the slaughter. Already he could see Emily and Hubbs working their way up to where Huxley and Jefferson were, to join in the cover fire.

He hand signaled for Paige to begin making his move, and for Sullivan to stay where he was. He pulled back the pump and inserted two more shells into the breach. He was gonna need a full weapon for this. He looked back at his fire team and finally made the hand motion to open fire.

Immediately, Hubbs opened up with his machine gun and swept through the field. Jefferson slapped in a new magazine and unloaded it all in three-round bursts while Huxley unleashed all his ammo at once, not necessarily to kill as it was more to keep their heads down. Emily once again aimed through her scope and fired a round into the head of a Russian who wasn't entirely behind cover. He fell, and his partner instantly lifted his head to try to get a glimpse of where the bullet had fired from.

It was the last thing he did as another bullet was fired, and he fell backwards beside his comrade.

Seven left.

And it was then that Paige stood up and fired a burst from his SMG, taking out another soldier, tearing him almost in half with the powerful rounds. Three of the Russians turned and began firing back. The Southerner ducked back down for a reload, while firing his pistol over their heads to keep them down.

Sullivan trained his assault rifle on a soldier that was firing upon Paige's position, waiting for him to fully expose himself. He finally did, and the American plugged him once, twice, three times.

There were only five left now. Three fired on Paige, two fired at Sullivan. Both Americans fired back, but with rounds now flying over their heads, the bullets were not entirely accurate. They were now, however, surrounded on all sides; one was pure wall, and three were from one of more Freedom Fighters. And still, they took casualties. One took a bullet into his shoulder that spun him around and knocked him to the ground; another cried out in pain as another round passed straight through his kneecap.

But they were dug in, and Tom knew that this had to end soon before any more help showed up. A determined Soviet squad could cut right through their encirclement if the need came. They had to take them out.

Firing his shotgun, he bent down and pulled a grenade from his belt. Holding down the release lever, he pulled the pin and lobbed it over. The grenade flew through the air, down, and bounced off a Russian's head and landed in his lap.

The sergeant got back behind his cover as the grenade detonated, shooting up debris and blood into the air and raining down on the surrounding forces. Then came the screams; the cries and shouts of the wounded Russian soldiers as they realized they were wounded. The man who had the grenade land in his lap was standing, his groin just a giant gaping bloody hole. The man who had been shot in the shoulder now looked down at his twisted, distorted arm laying lifeless on the pavement. None of them were uninjured; even their leader winced as he pressed his hand to his bleeding side, trying not to look at the spurting wound.

It was the screams that always bugged Tom. Not the shooting, not the carnage, not even the blood. The screams were the worst. And he couldn't listen to them any longer.

He got up and fired a bullet from his Revolver into the heart of the man with the exploded groin. Then he went over and pumped a shotgun round into the remaining soldiers. With every round, his men saw blood and brain matter go spurting high, and it was amazing that their sergeant never got any on his face.

The last one he killed was the commander. As he aimed the shotgun single-handedly until it was leveled at his head, there was a brief moment where they made eye contact. In that last moment, the man was saying something- End it? Go to hell? What are the last thoughts of a man looking down the barrel of a gun? - and then the trigger was pulled and a second hole was added to the man's head. Tom ejected the shell as the body slid down the wall and crumpled up in a heap.

He wiped his face, this time of the man's blood that had shot at him, and looked around. It was over. Another battle was finished, and once again, he had made it out, and so had his squad. Maybe now they could head back to base for some food and-

"TANK!!!"

The dreaded cry ripped through him like an RPG round. Turning his head, he saw the large metal monster driving through the narrow alley, its wide frame tearing into the brick wall, shattering it and causing bricks to fall down and be crushed by the treads. Its 115mm cannon swerved towards them.

_Shit_, he thought. They had stayed too long.

"Everybody take cover!" he screamed.

Paige dove forward as he and Sullivan rushed to get out of the tank's line of sight. The Fire Team took their weapons off their stands and hid behind whatever available cover the landscape offered itself. Everyone braced themselves as the tank rolled around the corner and into their street, preparing for the fire.

The first shell was worse than Emily had ever imagined it to be. It didn't just fire, it roared, like the roar of a dragon in a fairy-tale movie, only twenty times worse. The shell slammed into the wall, sending bricks and debris raining down on top of all of them. One brick landed not two feet from her head, and she jumped back and collided against Hubbs, knocking both of them down.

"SHIT! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA DO NOW?!" Jefferson hollered out.

"WE WAIT IT OUT UNTIL IT'S GOTTA GO FOR A RESUPPLY!" shouted Hubbs.

It fired two more shells, both in rapid succession, and both just as deadly as the first.

"WE WAIT ANY LONGER, THERE WON'T NEED TO _BE_ A FUCKIN' RESUPPLY!!!" Paige shouted back angrily.

"I saw a couple rocket tubes back a ways away!" This was shouted out by Huxley. "They looked like theys was fully loaded. Think they could put in a dent in this ugly sonuvabitch?"

"It's a worth a shot." Tom dropped back behind his cover and nodded. "Alright, Huxley. Go run and get it. Get back here as fast as you can."

"Count on me, Sarge."

Loosening a grenade, Huxley pulled the pin and lobbed it up, over, and it landed in front of the tank and exploded. The machine gun aimed at him, but the new man had already begun sprinting and was almost around the corner when the gun started firing. Bullets sprayed all around his feet, but he made it past and around without a scratch.

The tank was still firing, machine gun and cannon, round after round without stop. Brick and debris rained down on the squad continuously. It was the most horrible thing ever; either lay there and die, or try to leave and die. Those were the only options; shooting at it definitely couldn't help.

Jefferson was about to go for option number two, but Hubbs knocked him down.

"No one moves!" Tom shouted over the fire. "We sit tight and wait for Huxley to get back with that rocket launcher!"

"By that time, there's gonna be nothing left!" screamed Jefferson.

"That hick had better get back here soon," Hubbs looked over his shoulder. "Otherwise, we're dead."

The cannon was swerving again. And, to Emily's horror, this time it stopped directly over her head, then began to lower.

"SHIT!" Hubbs grabbed her arm and half jumped, half rolled both of them out from behind their rock. They got up and ran just as it fired. In a second, their once-safe cover had been blown away completely.

They ran into a two-story building that hadn't been ultimately destroyed. Hubbs, wasting no time, ran up the stairs, Emily hurrying right behind him. He kicked down the door at the top, went over to one of the windows, and propped his machine-gun on the sill. Emily went over to the other window and did the same with her Dragnov. From here, they couldn't penetrate the tank, but at least they could see if any other soldier was coming to join it.

It was when the tank stopped firing both its weapons- most likely for simultaneous reload- that Huxley finally reappeared. The rocket was hunched over his shoulder, three rounds in his hand, his SMG slung over his other shoulder. He was weighed down by about twenty extra pounds, but somehow, he still managed to sprint back over to his cover just as the cannon lobbed another shell over his head.

"Got the goods!" he called, tossing the tube and the rounds to the sergeant. "Special delivery, comin' right up, y'all!"

Tom stuffed a rocket into the tube and got up. He only briefly glanced through the launcher's scope before he fired the round, the back blast almost knocking over. The round skidded across the top of the tank, leaving a giant burn mark, and impacting on the opposite building.

Two rounds left.

He cursed. He cursed again when he saw the cannon beginning to turn towards the direction in which the rocket had been fired. Hastily, he grabbed the rockets and his shotgun, slung the rocket tube over his back, and sprinted out from his cover just as the monstrous weapon aimed right at it.

He heard the explosion, felt the shockwave and the bits of rubble that rained down from the sky. Felt the shockwave from the shell that had slammed into the ground. That thing had almost killed him right there…but he brushed it off. There was no brooding over it. Next shell may not leave him as lucky.

He got on his belly and crawled around to the rear of the tank. The RPG tube weighed him down very little, compared to what he was used to. He peeked up, to see if there was anything else he needed to worry about. So far, nothing.

He got on a knee and began loading in another rocket. A direct shot to the rear would send this tank and anyone in it back to the Motherland faster than any living soldier could. He lifted the rocket and this time took careful aim. The rear was in his sight, with just the right amount in between that he wasn't too close to be killed, but not far away that it would fall short. His finger tightened around the trigger-

The top of the turret flipped open, and the tank commander stuck his body out for a look. Tom paused. This bastard had picked the perfect time to stick his nose out. He was looking around, probably for whoever had fired that rocket. Any minute now, he was gonna look over at him, and see a huge-ass rocket looking him right in the face. And at that time, there would be nothing left he could do about.

And he finally did. Their eyes met, for a brief moment, and the Russians' went wide when they realized how tight on the trigger his finger was on the weapon of death. His hand-with radio grasped firmly inside- lifted to his mouth, but only made it part way there when the side of his head exploded with blood and brains, spraying all over the left side of the tank and the ground past it. He slumped, fell forward, and down into the tank.

Mentally thanking Emily for the shot, Tom stood again to take his. His finger squeezed the trigger.

The rocket jetted out of the tube and slammed right into the rear of the tank, sending the back end flipping up and then landing back down on its treads. Its rear was sparking, flames were shooting out, and smoke rose from the flames. There was no more firing coming from either gun.

Tom fell to his knees, letting his breath out. He wiped his forehead of sweat. The deed was done and his squad was safe. He patted himself on the back for a job well done.

And then the turret started moving again, twisting around so that it was going to face him. His eyes went huge and he gulped. Frantically, he groped for his final round and fumbled to stick it in the tube. Someone was still alive in that thing, and its turret was still in-activity, which made it still dangerous. Even just a turret, it could still be a bitch.

His fingers didn't want to agree with him, as they fumbled repeatedly with the rocket. He almost screamed in frustration before they finally allowed him to stick it in and connect the fuses. The turret was halfway towards him. The fuses were complete. It was now three-quarters. He stood up again and lifted it and aimed it back at the tank just as the turret finished its rotation.

He fired first.

The final round finished what the one before it had started. It hit the exact spot as the last one, and this time the turret came flying off and flipping through the air as a giant mushroom cloud of fire erupted from the now completely destroyed iron monster.

Rounds complete.

Tom threw the launcher down and exhaled the oxygen he had been holding in. Getting up, he grabbed his shotgun and walked over to the tank, fully aflame. He gave the tread a kick.

His squad got up, Emily and Hubbs came downstairs, and they all gathered around also. All had dirty faces, their outfits stained with dirt and mud and blood. Emily glanced at her watch. They had only been out there for a little over an hour. It was incredible, how so much had happened in so short amount of time.

"I sure don't wanna go through anything like that again," Jefferson broke the silence with.

"I think we're gonna see more of that again before this whole thing's done with," said Paige silently.

Emily nodded. She remembered what Tom, Joel, Kigner, and all the other sergeants had been telling her from the start; that this was a bad war and that just when you thought it was over, it just got worse. This was just the beginning for them.

"So…who's hungry?"

-----

Back on the Island, a sweet smell filled the air. Something cinnamon and sugary mixed with that of maple syrup. It was a smell many hadn't smelled in months, and it was a welcome relief from the usual food they got.

"Jesus, is that French toast I smell?" Paige exclaimed, mouthwatering at the mere thought of it.

Huxley, standing behind the counter and preparing the food onto its trays, grinned.

"Sure is, Mac," he answered. "Want some?"

Paige scoffed and held his plate out.

"Do I want some, he says," he grumbled, as he looked lovingly at the food being placed onto his plate. "Ain't had French toast since I left Arkansas."

"Well hell, boy, take all ya want. Plenty to go 'round." Huxley glanced over at Jefferson and Sullivan. "Y'all can take some too. Help yo'selves."

The two eagerly went to get their plates filled. They were followed by Hubbs, then Joel and the 1st squad boys, and then the rest of the soldiers stationed on the Island. Soon, just about everyone had their own plate and wolfing down the food.

It had been so long since Emily had enjoyed French toast, she had forgotten it. She savored every syrupy bite, chewing slowly, allowing the taste to drip down her throat and down to her stomach. Each bite was heaven, and she tried to make it last as long as she could.

"2nd Squad! Quick word!"

Tom walked into the Mess Hall, shotgun in one hand. All five of them, and Huxley, stopped eating to look up.

"Good job today," the sergeant said. "Intel says we must've wiped out an entire platoon of Russians today, along with two whole mortar team and one of their elite tanks. That's a platoon, two teams, and a tank less than they had yesterday, and for that, we've been commended. For a bunch of greens, you did pretty alright today. Made an old veteran like me proud."

Emily beamed. The others looked proud, especially since it was coming from their squad leader. From command, it was OK, but from the guy who went out, who had seen more than they had, and who led them into battle, it was something more. He was a god to them, and maybe he knew it, but he was proud of them, and that made it all worth more than anything the higher ups could say.

He turned next to speak directly to Huxley. "I put in a request," he told him, "for your transfer, and Tarkin approved. Welcome to 2nd Squad, Private Huxley. You're on base of fire. Paige, I'm moving you over to Assault Specialist. For your work today."

Paige looked like Christmas had come early for him, and he nodded and even saluted graciously. Tom returned it, then nodded to the rest of them and walked off, Hubbs right behind him. Paige slapped Huxley on the arm.

"Welcome to the squad, Hux," he said. "Somethin' tells me we're gonna make a good team."

As the rest of the squad laughed and joked, Emily again opened her notebook and began filling in its pages:

"_We had another battle today. For the first time, I was introduced to mortar fire and a tank attack, and it was terrifying. But we got through it without any casualties, and we even gained a new soldier, a Louisiana native named Huxley. And also, I realized that Paige wasn't that bad of a guy. He can be a jerk, yes, but he's a good person to have at your side in a bad situation, and in a war, that's a good quality to have._

"_It's true what they say. War really is about bringing complete opposites into a brotherhood._

"_Hopefully, we can make that last."_

* * *

…Somehow, this story always manages to bring out long chapters.

This hit 18 pages, with over 7,000 words, making it the longest Death Run chapter thus far and the second longest chapter I have ever written for a story (the first belongs to chapter 14 of Resident Evil: Another Side, Another Nightmare, with 20 pages and over 8,000 words.). I'm pleased with this, though. I really think it came out awesome. I even managed to introduce a new character. Sweet.

Anyhoo, sorry for the delay. As you can see, it took some time.

Review please, and peace until next time.


	6. Author's Note

Holy shit, an update. Is it Christmas?

Well, this is an author's note after...shit, years now. Just to let you guys know the story is probably going to be rebooted.

**The characters and most basic plotlines will remain the same**, so no worries there. I'm not, like, drastically overhauling and doing every little thing completely different. Basically why I'm doing this is, if you've read any of my other stories, my writing style has changed drastically over the last four or five years, and if I'm gonna continue this story, then I want it to be consistent with my current writing.

Why not just dump this? Because deep down, I do really want to continue this story some day. And I think I'd do better if I just re-started from scratch.

So yeah. Just a head's up. Won't happen for a while, but if you see this disappear, and you go on the Freedom Fighters page and it's there with one chapter, well, that's why. Somehow this story still gets a consistently large amount of hits per month, which amazes the hell out of me after all this time. Thank you all for that. Hope you'll be on board for a reboot.

That's all for now. Peasoup.


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